


A Fire and a Conflagration

by iodhadh



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, Bondage, Competitive Epistolary Flirting, Demands of the Qun, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh/pseuds/iodhadh
Summary: At first, the Iron Bull is just writing poetry to Dorian because it's a fun way to tease him—he gets all huffy when he's pretending he doesn't think the lowbrow stuff is funny, and besides, he started it by making it a Vint-versus-Qunari thing. It's only fair for Bull to needle him a bit.At first, Dorian is only writing back to Bull because he can't let him win. The pride of Tevinter's literary tradition (not to mention his own dignity) is at stake here, and he will not be beaten at metaphor by someone who thinks cattle-related puns are an appropriate way to seduce someone.And that's all it is. At first.





	A Fire and a Conflagration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityfails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityfails/gifts).



> "Hey Jared, how many levels of lore are you on right now?" Well, I borrowed a book of Byzantine poetry translations from the library for inspiration, thanks for asking (if you thought the Avvar poetry was a lot, just you wait).
> 
> Many thanks to Nele, for support and extensive brainstorming (and calling me a nerd); to Jadis, for poetry crit and metrical expertise; to Toft, for commiseration and screaming at all the right bits; to June, for toiling alongside me in the word mines; and to Jen, for letting me use Corti and Salvetti for my own nefarious purposes (and also calling me a nerd). Thanks also to Riss's trashy pop Adoribull mix, All My Worst Intentions, which was my saving grace when I thought outlining would drive me out of my mind.
> 
> To Katie—apparently I'm just destined to write for you forever. Thanks for being a great friend, and fandom drift compatible with me in all the best ways. Love you lots. I hope you like this.

The Iron Bull was three drinks in with one arm slung over Dalish’s shoulders, conducting the Chargers’ drinking songs, when he spotted Dorian that night.

It wasn’t unusual to see Dorian at the Herald’s Rest—hadn’t been for some time, really, but especially wasn’t since he had started taking Bull up on his open door policy a few weeks ago. But it _was_ unusual to see him by himself: if he didn’t take an open chair at the Chargers’ table, he was often found in Sera’s company, or arguing spellcasting technique with Adaar over a late dinner on the few nights she could snatch away from her Inquisitorial duties.

But there was no Sera or Adaar today. Instead Dorian was sitting alone, thoroughly engrossed in a book.

Under Bull’s arm, Dalish giggled, and belatedly he realized his singing had fallen off. He glanced around the table and was greeted with several cheeky smirks and a few sardonically raised eyebrows. He grinned sheepishly. “That obvious, huh?”

“Keep it in your pants, Chief,” Krem drawled, punctuating his statement by thumping his tankard down on the table.

“No promises,” Bull said, unwinding his arm from the back of Dalish’s chair. “Go on, you can get by without me for a few minutes.”

Behind him there was a laugh—Dalish again—and then the group picked up the song again in scattered unison. Bull wound his way through the tables to Dorian, coming up beside him and letting his hand come to rest gently between his shoulderblades. Dorian sank back into the touch, just slightly, but otherwise made no reaction.

“Bit of an odd place to be reading,” Bull said.

“Better than spending the evening in the library again,” Dorian said, not looking up from his book. “I was starting to get sick of being cooped up in there with all those musty old tomes on Tevinter genealogy.”

“Surprised you brought one with you, then.”

Dorian did look up at that, making an offended noise to rival Cassandra’s best. “As if I’d waste my off hours reading one of those. This is something else entirely—not that you’d know anything about reading for pleasure, you great lummox.”

Bull grinned. “That’s me,” he said. “Use my muscles more than my brain.” And then just for good measure he flexed his pecs.

Dorian’s gaze focused abruptly, and for a moment he couldn’t seem to make his voice work. “Quite,” he said, after slightly too long a pause. “Does that mean you’ll allow me to go back to my poetry now?”

Bull’s grin, if possible, stretched even wider. “You read poetry?”

“I did have a classical Tevinter education,” Dorian said, the acid in his voice familiar and fond as he attempted to go back to reading. “Of course I read poetry, Bull. I’m not a rube.”

Bull leaned down over his shoulder to get a look at his book, chest brushing against his arm, lips right next to his ear. “‘In me is the power of naming,’” he read out, the fluid syllables of formal High Tevene sitting oddly on his tongue. “‘I command the world with a word. I say I am blessed, and I am blessed. I name myself free, and I am free.’ Corti, really?” he added, switching back to Trade. “Seems a bit patriotic for you.”

Dorian was staring at him in astonishment. “You know Tevinter poetry?” he demanded.

“Sure,” Bull said, pulling out the chair next to him and dropping into a seat. “Ben-Hassrath, remember? Actually, the whole priesthood is pretty big on poetry. We use it as a way to practice memorization and mental flexibility. And we study the forms of other cultures as part of our training.”

Dorian’s face was an incredible mix of horrified, delighted, and scandalized. “I never would have guessed the Qunari read poetry.”

“We _write_ poetry,” Bull corrected.

“No,” Dorian said. _“You?”_

“Yep,” Bull said. “Well, not much anymore, aside from the occasional meditation. It was more a training exercise than anything else.”

“Fasta vass. That’s incredible,” Dorian said. Scandalized delight was winning out. “I can’t imagine what sort of verse forms the Qunari make use of.”

“Hey, come on,” Bull said. “Haven’t you ever heard the Qun? It’s very poetic.”

“Oh, yes,” Dorian said sardonically. “I’m sure it is, in and around all the subjugation of mages and subsuming of individual rights.”

That was an argument he had had with Dorian before, and one it would get him nowhere to repeat, so instead Bull just said, “Right, because there are no black marks on the Tevinter canon. ‘I name myself free, and I am free?’ Really?”

“Yes, well,” Dorian said, pulling a face like he had bitten into something sour. “Corti had a particularly… rosy view of the Imperium, let’s leave it at that. You’re right, I’m hardly one to talk. But, that said,” he said, prodding Bull in the chest with the hand that wasn’t occupied holding his book, “you’re not allowed to ruin the Tevinter literary tradition for me. For all its flaws, it’s one of few things about my homeland that makes me feel nostalgic rather than bitter.”

“And yet you’re reading Corti,” Bull said.

“It’s an _anthology!”_ Dorian protested. “And it’s also all I have. I don’t know if it was meant as a gift or if its appearance was merely an oversight, but it came in with the last shipment of books, and I’m hardly so rude as to complain about an unasked-for boon. There are some better selections as well.”

He leafed back through the pages, then cleared his throat and lifted the book with a significant look. “For example: ‘You are not a nectar I could sip, my love, as fickle as the hummingbird,’” he read out, with much more elegant Tevene than Bull’s Par Vollen-accented vowels. “‘You are a well and I would drink my full of you; an ocean and I would know your depths.’ You must admit that’s beautiful.”

“Salvetti, right?” Bull said. To Dorian’s nod, he just shrugged one shoulder. “He’s always been a bit flowery for my tastes.”

“You disparage Salvetti,” Dorian said. “Brute. I should have known better than to expect you to understand anything about poetry.”

Bull laughed. “Maybe not,” he said, “but I do understand that you’re in a tavern with no drink. Why don’t you come sit with the Chargers and me? Your book’ll still be there tomorrow.”

“I am fairly confident that your Chargers will likewise still be here tomorrow. Possibly quite literally _here_ , in this very room,” Dorian said, but nevertheless he snapped the book closed and tucked it into his belt, following Bull back over to their table.

They got pretty drunk. The Chargers had warmed to Dorian slightly since he’d started spending some of his nights in Bull’s room, but there was still a mean edge to their teasing. When Rocky—already drunk enough to be swaying—challenged Dorian to a drinking contest, that was just business as usual, but when Krem decided to get in on it Bull realized they were all in trouble.

Dorian measured Krem up across the table with a long look. “I accept,” he said at last. “Tevinter rules?”

“Obviously,” Krem said.

Bull sighed, as though he wasn’t tickled to see his second and his—whatever Dorian was—bonding like this. “I’ll get the shots.”

“What is Tevinter rules?” Skinner said.

“They’re gonna take a row of shots as fast as they can and then try to stand up,” Bull said, getting to his feet.

“As the company medic, I have to register my protest,” Stitches said. Since it was muttered into his ale cup, no one paid him any mind.

With eight shots of West Hill brandy neatly arranged in front of them, Dorian and Krem squared off. “I was in the army, Pavus,” Krem said. “You’re going to regret this.”

“When I was at the Minrathous Circle there were a few soldiers stationed in town who could almost keep up with me,” Dorian returned, not quite succeeding at containing his grin. “I suppose you’ll do. On my mark: three, two, one—”

They threw back their first shots together, reversing their empty glasses and slamming them down in perfect synchronization, but by the third Dorian was already slightly ahead. Bull waited until he was on his second to last, then said, “Lots of practice swallowing, huh?”

Just as he’d expected, Dorian choked on his last drink. “You—”

“Hah!” Krem shouted, throwing his last glass down and rising. “Beat you, Pavus.”

Dorian threw back the rest of his shot and got to his feet. “Your employer is a cheat and you know it. Hands up.”

“Come on, Dorian, we’ve all seen you play chess,” Bull said comfortably, settling back to watch as Dorian and Krem both kicked their chairs out of the way and raised their hands from the table. Krem had won the first part of the contest, but the real deciding factor—whether or not they could stay upright—was yet to be seen.

He could see the moment when it hit them both. Dorian closed his eyes and swallowed, swaying gently; Krem did that thing where he stood up stiff and soldier-straight as if that didn’t just make it obvious he was trying to hide how drunk he was. For a long moment nothing happened. But then, just when Bull was starting to think he’d have to call a draw, Krem’s knees buckled and he slowly—very slowly—started sinking to the floor.

By the time he hit the ground the rest of the Chargers had broken. Rocky had dissolved into drunken giggling, Dalish was in howling hysterics, Skinner was cackling and crowing at Krem’s expense, and even Stitches was muffling laughter into his fist. Only Grim remained unaffected, watching the proceedings with his usual quiet amusement as he continued methodically stacking the abandoned shot glasses into a tower.

“So there!” Dorian said, his voice rather looser than it had been the last time he’d spoken. “I win!”

Bull guffawed. “Looks like he’s got you there, Krem-puff.”

“Fuck you,” Krem slurred, into the side of Stitches’ chair. “You’re all a bunch of assholes.”

“And we’ve never claimed otherwise,” Bull said cheerfully. “Alright, that’s it for you, someone help him get to bed.”

As Stitches and Dalish manhandled Krem to his feet, Dorian took an unsteady step over to Bull, sliding into his lap in a move that was probably meant to be seductive but was really more of a controlled fall. “And what about me?” he said, winding his arms around Bull’s shoulders.

Bull grinned at him. “You too, big guy. Come on, on your feet. I’ll help you back to your room.”

“I can walk!” Dorian protested, but got his feet under him without further complaint. “Are you doubting my abilities, Bull? Public drunkenness is practically a sport among the Alti.”

“Gotta say, I’m impressed you’re not slurring,” Bull said, putting his hand on the small of Dorian’s back and guiding him towards the exit. “That was potent stuff.”

“What can I say,” Dorian said. “I am unutterably magnificent.” With Bull’s direction he was even managing to walk in a credibly straight line.

They had some difficulty with the stairs, but eventually made it back to Dorian’s room with no further incident. Bull closed the door, and Dorian turned in his arms to lean on him rather more heavily than he needed to, if their walk there had been any indication. “Well?” he said. “Are you going to undress me or not?”

“I’ll help you get your clothes off,” Bull said. “I’m not staying, Dorian. You’re pretty drunk.”

“If you’re worried I can’t perform, I assure you—”

“It’s not that,” Bull said. “But you’re too drunk for watchwords. You can come by my room tomorrow, how about that? Sleep it off, big guy.”

“Oh, fine,” Dorian grumbled, but held his arms out without protest for Bull to undo his buckles.

Bull had had enough experience with disrobing Dorian now to know how his robes fit together, and he had him stripped down to his smallclothes in a matter of minutes. As Dorian staggered over to the bed, Bull carried the robes to the desk, laying them over the chair and setting down the book of poetry that Dorian had tucked into his belt.

And stared down at it in sudden contemplation.

An idea had been percolating in the back of his mind all evening, and now it stepped to the fore, fully formed. Immediately he started rifling through the papers on the desk for a blank bit of parchment and a quill. This was going to be good.

For a few minutes there was only the quiet scratching of the quill, but then Dorian seemed to realize he was still there. “What are you doing?” he said, his voice slow and muffled.

Bull glanced back at him. He had collapsed on the bed on his side, eyes closed, half his face mashed into the pillow. It was impossibly charming.

“Just writing something down for the morning,” Bull said, turning back to his scrap paper. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dorian made a vague grumbling noise, and there was the sound of him stretching. “If you’re not going to fuck me, get out of my room and let me sleep.”

Bull put the finishing touches on what he was writing and blew the ink dry, sliding the scrap between the pages of Dorian’s poetry book. “I’m going,” he said.

He crossed to the washbasin, pouring fresh water into the cup, and brought it to Dorian’s bedside. Dorian grumbled again when Bull touched his shoulder, but sat up without any more vocal complaints and swallowed it down. Bull helped him to resettle, set a fresh cup of water on his bedside table for the morning, and kissed him lightly on the temple. “Goodnight, Dorian.”

Dorian mumbled something that may have been a goodnight into his pillow. He was asleep before Bull had drawn the door closed behind him.

* * *

Dorian woke in the morning feeling like someone was trying to run a sword through the middle of his forehead.

“Vishante kaffas,” he groaned, then winced at the volume of his own voice. “What was I doing last night?”

He remembered the book of poetry, and the unexpected and entirely delightful conversation it had engendered with the Bull. He had gone to join the Chargers at their table, and then…

It was with another groan that he remembered Cremisius challenging him to a drinking contest, and he buried his face in the pillow. And Bull had tried to sabotage him. That traitor. He was never speaking to either of them again.

At least, he recalled with no small satisfaction, he had won.

After another few minutes of lying in bed with a pounding headache, he finally admitted to himself that he wasn’t likely to get back to sleep. He dragged his body upright. His eyes landed on a cup sitting on his nightstand; investigation proved it to be full of water, and he recalled with a sudden clarity the Bull helping him back to his room and putting him to bed. He had offered to fuck the man, Dorian was fairly certain—and, quite clearly, Bull had turned him down, which was both unexpected and somehow sweet.

He was sipping slowly at the water and debating the merits of breakfast when his gaze landed on the poetry anthology. It was sitting on the chair on top of his robes—neatly folded, thank you Bull—and it looked like there was a bookmark sticking out of it. Since Dorian never used bookmarks, this was immediately suspect. Bull had been writing something, hadn’t he? What had he stuck in Dorian’s book?

Curiosity winning out over comfort, Dorian threw the blankets back and swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold, and he hissed briefly, but there was no helping it; he was up now. He crossed the room to his desk and picked up the book. There was indeed a scrap of paper in it, and when he let it fall open he was astonished to see a short verse scrawled out on it in the Bull’s familiar open hand.

> _Men follow in your wake, and sigh_  
>  _To keep your backside in their eye._  
>  _Like mangoes bathed in morning dew,_  
>  _Bold beauty, let me taste of you._  
>  _How glad I am of where I stand,_  
>  _In this or any other land,_  
>  _For your round cheeks to fit my hand._

For a moment Dorian could only gape. Bull had written him a poem. Bull had written him a poem _about his arse_ —an entirely ridiculous but still very flattering poem, a small, smug corner of his mind couldn’t help but note. The verse form was unfamiliar, which meant it was probably Qunari in origin, but it was written in Trade, and Dorian was suddenly struck by the awareness that Bull had not only composed this on the fly, he had done so in what must have been his second or even third language. There were a couple of spots where a word or two had been scratched out and replaced, but it had otherwise been set down remarkably whole. He hadn’t even needed to revise it. It was impressive. It was infuriating. It was astonishingly attractive.

Before he could stop to think Dorian was throwing on a fresh set of robes and stalking out the door, the little scrap of paper clutched in one hand. He took the stairs at a rapid clip, headache be damned, and strode out of Skyhold into the bright light of an autumn day, only wincing a little.

He found the Bull at the training ground with his Chargers—where he was satisfied to note that Cremisius looked just as delicate as he still felt. Bull broke off his fight at Dorian’s approach, grinning, and came over to the edge of the field, planting his improbably enormous axe in the dirt at his feet and folding his hands over the haft.

“Surprised to see you up before noon, big guy,” he said. Dorian ignored him.

“What is this?” he demanded, thrusting the scrap of parchment towards the Bull’s face.

Bull leaned in, peering at it with a palpably false innocence, and looked back up at him with an earnest expression on his face. “It looks like a poem.”

“I know what your handwriting looks like, you oaf,” Dorian said. “Explain.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bull said, back to grinning widely. “After all, a brute like me couldn’t possibly understand anything about poetry.” He made a show of studying the poem again as Dorian sputtered, then said, “It’s right, though. You do have a great ass.”

Dorian scoffed, but it wasn’t enough to cover up the smile he could feel tugging at his lips. “It’s crude and amateurish,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

“I wouldn’t know,” Bull said guilelessly. “Maybe you can educate whoever wrote it with something properly Tevinter.”

“I will, thank you very much,” Dorian said, before he had stopped to think about it.

“Hey, Chief! Get your ass back over here!” Cremisius interrupted, sounding aggrieved. “If you’re not going to train, I’m going back to bed.”

“Duty calls,” Bull said, hefting his axe. “See you tonight?”

Dorian sniffed. “If I must.”

Bull grinned and turned back to the training ground. Dorian lingered for another moment, admiring the flex of his back muscles, then shook himself and scurried off towards the keep. He had work to do—and the first order of business was breakfast: if he wanted to have a response for Bull’s poem by this evening, he’d need something to help his hangover.

He spent the rest of the morning working on a poem—which was a nice break from the excruciating dullness and intermittent frustrations of hunting for signs of Corypheus in ancient genealogy records, but it also brought home just how quickly Bull must have set his own poem to paper, which was its own kind of annoyance. By the time he was satisfied with what he’d written, he looked up to discover that one of the library staff had quietly left a bowl of stew on the table nearby, leftovers from the luncheon he had once again forgotten to attend. He scraped the bowl clean, copied his poem out onto a fresh page, and then dove into his neglected research for the rest of the afternoon.

It was late by the time he finished for the day. He ate a quick dinner in Skyhold’s great hall, then went to the Herald’s Rest. Bull’s usual chair was empty, but some of his Chargers were sitting around their table. Dalish looked up at his approach, flashing him a friendly smile that was unexpectedly genuine.

“Chief’s up in his room already,” she said.

“I hadn’t even said anything yet,” Dorian protested.

“Didn’t need to,” Skinner muttered into her ale.

He should have been put out, but he had been looking for the Bull, so he decided to escape with what was left of his dignity. “Thank you,” he said, turning for the stairs.

“Have fun!” Dalish called brightly, and laughed when Dorian threw her an obscene gesture over his shoulder.

Bull pulled the door open to his knock, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk on his lips. “Hey, big guy. Come to give me a proper poetry education?”

Dorian was very conscious of the poem in his breast pocket. He sniffed. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about,” he said. He pushed his way into the room, crowding into Bull’s space; with a grin on his face, Bull allowed it, settling his hands around Dorian’s waist. Dorian kicked the door shut behind him and had yanked Bull down into a kiss before it was even properly closed.

Bull took him apart slowly that night, laying him out on his stomach and spreading his legs, biting marks onto his arse before working his way down to press his tongue against his entrance. He kept at it for a long time, until Dorian was cursing and bucking back against his mouth, until a particularly well-placed thrust had him gasping out, “Fasta vass, would you get _on_ with it? Are you trying to make another joke about my arse?”

Bull pulled back, sucking a bruise into Dorian’s inner thigh. “Hey, I take your ass very seriously,” he said, squeezing it with both hands.

Despite himself Dorian huffed a laugh, arching back into his touch. “Shall I list the jokes you’ve made in chronological order, or alphabetically?”

Bull pressed his fingers against Dorian’s hole, working the first inside him with a slow twist. “I could stop, if you like.”

“No,” Dorian said, “I would rather prefer you did not.”

Later, after Bull had taken him apart and let him put himself back together, after he had rested and been cleaned up and was rising to pull his robes back on, the Bull propped himself up on his elbow to watch him.

“You’re welcome to stay, if you want to,” he said.

Dorian’s hands stilled briefly on the fastenings of his robe, but he shook it off with a laugh. “I shouldn’t want to overstay my welcome,” he said, slipping his poem out of his pocket while he was still facing the other way. He turned back to Bull with a smile, keeping the paper concealed behind his hip, and crossed to the side of the bed. “I shall leave you to your rest. Goodnight, Bull,” he said, and leaned down to give him the filthiest kiss he could manage.

It was a fitting end to the night, and if it was enough of a distraction for him to slide the paper under Bull’s pillow unnoticed—well, that was his business.

* * *

Bull found the poem the next morning when he was pulling his sheets straight. He didn’t bother to bite down his grin as he unfolded it.

> _How fortunate the man_  
>  _Who witnesses my shape—_  
>  _My body, proud and strong,_  
>  _Perfection given form._  
>  _How lucky, he whom I_  
>  _Invite into my bed:_  
>  _But if he would return_  
>  _He surely must impress._  
>  _Many have admired_  
>  _The outline of my thigh,_  
>  _The broadness of my chest,_  
>  _My excellence of taste,_  
>  _But those most blessed admire_  
>  _Another part the best:  
>  _ _How glad they are to know  
>  _ _My cock’s magnificence._

“Damn,” he said. “He wasn’t kidding.” It was a classic example of the Tevinter style, in everything from the meter to the tasteful vulgarity to the unabashed boasting.

He was still chuckling about it a few minutes later when there was a knock at his door. “Just a sec,” he called, setting the poem on his desk and grabbing his pants from the foot of his bed. He yanked them on, tying them at the waist one-handed as he pulled open the door.

“Hey, Bull,” said Adaar. “Got a minute?”

“Sure,” Bull said. “What’s going on, boss?”

Adaar scrubbed at the base of one curling horn. “I assume your boys told you about what they found at Therinfal Redoubt, yeah?”

Bull nodded. “Signs of a demon, right? Bad business,” he said. Krem had reported in to him when they got in; they had been celebrating a mission successfully completed when Bull had spotted Dorian with his poetry book.

“Yeah,” Adaar said. “I know they just got back, but I think I’m gonna have to send them out again. Krem said the Chargers have got experience with demon hunts, and we can’t afford to leave it running around out there. I thought you might like to go with them.”

It did sound tempting. “You sure you don’t need me here?”

Adaar grimaced at that. “I’m stuck doing diplomatic outreach for the next little while,” she said. “I doubt Josie’s letting me go anywhere. And if I do end up needing a warrior I can ask Cassandra or Blackwall, I won’t be left short-handed.” She shrugged. “Just because I’m cooped up and missing all the fun doesn’t mean you have to be.”

Bull grinned, clapping her companionably on the shoulder. “Fair enough. When are you sending us out?”

“As soon as you can get your boys moving,” she said. “I don’t like the idea of a shapeshifter loose in the countryside.”

“It’s a shapeshifter?”

“Apparently,” Adaar said, sounding decidedly annoyed about it. “Your lieutenant can give you the basics, and Leliana has more information for you.”

“I’ll get the boys together by noon,” Bull said.

“Thanks, Bull,” Adaar said. “I appreciate it.”

Dorian came down from the library as the Chargers were forming up in front of the gate. He lingered on the edge of the company until Bull waved him over, coming to a stop all of half a pace from where Bull was checking over his tack.

“The Lady Inquisitor mentioned you were heading out on a demon hunt,” he said.

Bull grinned, resting his hands at Dorian’s hips. “Sorry you’re missing all the fun?”

“Hardly,” Dorian scoffed, letting one palm settle against Bull’s chest. “I have no interest in traipsing halfway across southern Ferelden, of all places, when there’s a perfectly comfortable library to spend my time in. Especially not in the pursuit of a demon.”

“Don’t spend too much time in the chair,” Bull said, skimming one hand down to get a handful of Dorian’s rear. “Your ass’ll get sore.”

“See? Jokes about my arse again. You may remove your hands immediately if you’re going to be like that,” Dorian said, making not the slightest move to extract himself from Bull’s grip. “Sometimes I wonder if you have any sense of shame at all.”

“Nah,” Bull said cheerfully, and squeezed his ass again.

Dorian sighed dramatically. “I suppose I should have considered that. After all, no man who willingly wears those atrocities you call trousers could possibly be shamed by anything.”

Bull gave him an exaggerated wink with his single eye. “It’s only because I know how much you like taking them off me.”

Dorian flushed attractively at that, but his reply was interrupted by the arrival of Krem, who looked like he could have happily strangled them both. “Are you done yet?” he said. “Mount up, Chief, we’re heading out.”

Reluctantly Bull untangled himself from Dorian and mounted his horse, smiling down at him. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Do try not to get yourself killed, you lummox,” Dorian said. “Or else you’ll never get to appreciate my arse again.”

“Aw,” Bull said. “You’re worried about me. That’s sweet, Dorian.”

“I am not sweet,” Dorian said.

Bull just grinned at him. “Chargers!” he bellowed. “Horns up!”

“Horns up!” the Chargers returned, in ragged unison.

Giving Dorian a casual salute, Bull turned his horse, and they moved out.

Bull had other things to worry about as they began the march across southern Ferelden towards where their sources had last seen the demon, but his thoughts did drift to Dorian—and his ass—in the moments of quiet. On a whim, he had tucked the poem in with his things before he left; he read it again on the third night out, wondering what might make a good response.

The next day, he pulled his horse up next to Dalish and Skinner, and said, “So, what do you guys think of dirty limericks?”

Krem wanted nothing to do with their compositions, but Dalish and Rocky were delighted to participate, and before the hour was out Dalish had stood up in the saddle to loudly declaim a tribute to Skinner’s tits. Then Stitches had contributed a surprisingly filthy offering that he claimed was a traditional Fereldan example, and then Bit and Sunshine had got in on it too, and from there it had passed down the line; by the time they stopped for the night half the camp was composing verses of varying quality, and Krem was sitting with his head in his hands at the fireside.

“I hate you,” he said as Bull sat down beside him, not even bothering to look up. “This is entirely your fault. They’re going to try me for murder. You’re forcing my hand, here, Chief.”

“Save it for the demon, Krem-puff,” Bull said.

That turned out to be sooner than they’d anticipated, and in the end it escaped them before they could kill it. But now they had its trail, and they knew how it operated. When they stopped at one of the Inquisition’s forward camps, Bull sent a report back to Skyhold to update Adaar on their progress. An envelope addressed to Dorian went with it.

* * *

Dorian was grappling with a particularly irritating Old Tevene manuscript when the messenger came up. He assumed the woman was looking for Leliana at first and paid her no mind; she surprised him by making a beeline for his chair and thrusting a slightly battered envelope into his face.

“What is this?” he said, once he had blinked away the surprise.

The woman narrowed her eyes faintly. “It’s a letter,” she said, in a slow tone that clearly conveyed the unspoken _you fucking idiot_.

“No, I meant—never mind,” Dorian said. He had hesitated for a moment, recalling that the last letter delivered to him had come from his father via Mother Giselle, but he had caught sight of the handwriting on the outside of the envelope. This one was most assuredly safe.

Or at least, that was what he thought until he broke the seal and discovered that the Bull had been writing _limericks_.

> _There once was a mage from Qarinus,_  
>  _The unquestioned best of his genus,_  
>  _And his every part_  
>  _Was a working of art,  
>  _ _But surpassing them all was his penis._
> 
> _There once was a mage from Qarinus_  
>  _Whose manner was quite libidinous._  
>  _When I got him in bed,  
>  _ _He gave excellent head,  
>  _ _And we got off thirteen times between us._

His first impulse—swiftly bitten down—was to break into laughter. He schooled his face into impassivity. “That brute,” he muttered to himself. “That absolute oaf. I cannot _believe_ this.”

Manuscript forgotten, he immediately began scribbling his riposte.

Offended dignity served him well, and his second composition went much more swiftly than the first. Satisfied, he copied it onto a clean page, then looked up and was surprised to realize it had grown dark outside. “The south is determined to have me suffer,” he remarked to no one in particular. He glanced down at the manuscript he had been working his way through, then shoved it aside in disgust. Tucking the poem into his pocket, he went down to dinner.

He was just finishing up his meal when Adaar came in, and he raised his arm in greeting. Her tired eyes lit up upon spotting him, and she came over, dropping heavily into a seat and immediately beginning to pile her plate with venison stew and buttered carrots.

“Long day, my Lady Inquisitor?” Dorian said, passing her a crusty bread roll.

She toasted him with it and said around a mouthful of carrots, “Dorian, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Adaar?”

“Oh, but you get so delightfully flustered at the formal address,” he said.

“You’re an ass,” she said, without heat.

“And proud to claim that title,” he said. “But you do look tired.”

Adaar made a face. “I spent the day going over reports with Josie. Paperwork gives me such a headache.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “ _Reports_ , hm? Are you sure that’s all you were doing?”

Against all odds, Adaar flushed all the way up to the roots of her horns. “It’s not like that.”

Dorian bit down a smile. “Is it not?”

“And you can hardly talk,” Adaar said, stumbling over her words in her haste to change the subject. “I saw the letter Bull sent you from the field. Are you writing each other love notes now?”

Dorian thought about the atrocious—delightful—verse Bull’s letter had inflicted on him and fought down the urge to laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never passed love notes with anyone. It’s not like that.”

Adaar raised her eyebrows, and it was only then that he realized he had echoed her earlier words. He sighed.

“Truly, it’s not,” he said. “In fact, if you must know, it was a rather appalling joke about my penis.”

Adaar didn’t seem to know quite how to take that, but eventually she shrugged and went back to her dinner. “To each their own, I suppose.”

“I know,” Dorian said in tragic tones. “I can’t believe I’m sleeping with him either.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Adaar said, gesturing vaguely in his direction with her belt knife. “You’re every bit as bad.”

Dorian waved her off. “I wonder, did any of those reports you read today mention when the Chargers might be back?”

Adaar gave him a look. Dorian sighed again. “I assure you, I only want to know because I have to make my response to the Iron Bull’s entirely tasteless note.”

Adaar snorted, but made no further commentary. “Sorry, don’t know. They’re still hunting the demon,” she said. “You may be waiting a while.”

“Alas,” Dorian said. “Well, do enjoy your meal. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see if there’s anywhere clever I can leave a note of my own.”

He left the keep, hunching his shoulders against the chill in the air, and made his way towards the Herald’s Rest. Perhaps he might be able to get Cabot to let him into Bull’s room. If nothing else he could always slide his poem under the door—though that seemed somehow inadequate.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sera, who came careening out of the lower gardens and nearly crashed into him. He yelped and leapt out of the way. “Sera! Watch where you’re going!”

“Watch yourself, fancybritches!” she returned, then grabbed his hand and yanked him after her.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Can’t have you telling him where I went, can I?” she said.

Dorian’s head was spinning. “Telling who?” he said, picking up his pace to keep up with her breakneck gallop.

“Solas!”

Dorian decided it would be better not to ask. “Very well,” he said. “Lead the way.”

They ended up on the battlements, not too far from the Herald’s Rest but out of sight of the main courtyard. Sera came to a stop there at last, dropping his hand, and Dorian immediately braced it on the wall as he struggled to regain his breath. She was looking annoyingly chipper for someone who had just run half the length of Skyhold.

“Wuss,” she said, without pity. She waggled her eyebrows at him. “What, Bull not doing enough to improve your stamina?”

“We don’t usually spend our time _sprinting_ ,” Dorian said indignantly. He straightened up. “Do I want to know what that was about?”

Sera grinned brightly. “Mayhem,” she said.

“Of course.” Dorian sighed. “So, now what? We hide up here until it’s safe to go down?”

Sera hopped up to sit in one of the crenellations, one leg on either side of the wall, arms folded across the stone in front of her. “Probably,” she said.

That was about what Dorian had expected. “At least the run warmed me up,” he said.

“Here,” Sera said, pulling a napkin from the front of her shirt. She unfolded it to reveal three battered apple tarts, still steaming lightly in the cold air. “Knicked ‘em out of the kitchens.”

“Well, I suppose they can’t get any more stolen,” Dorian said philosophically, and accepted one, settling against the battlements next to her to lean in companionable silence.

He was just finishing off his illicitly-gained treat—gazing into the middle distance in roughly the direction of the Herald’s Rest—when he realized the hole in Bull’s roof still hadn’t been repaired.

“Sera,” he said, “I wonder if I might prevail upon you for a small favour.”

She squinted at him immediately. “I’m not putting the lizards back,” she said.

“What?” Dorian said, then thought better of it. “No. I don’t want to know. That wasn’t what I was asking.”

“What, then?”

He produced the paper from his breast pocket, tapping it against his other hand. “Do you think you might be able to get this into Bull’s room for me? You’re much more experienced than I with clambering all over the rooftops.”

The grin that blossomed across Sera’s face then was one Bull would have described as _shit-eating_. “You’re writing love letters,” she crowed.

“I am _not_ ,” Dorian said. Despite himself he could feel a flush crawling across his cheeks; resolutely he decided to blame it on the running. “Honestly. You’re the second person to suggest that today. I have to wonder if there’s some sort of grand conspiracy about my relations with Bull.”

“Or,” Sera said, “you could be writing love letters. Tosser.”

“It’s poetry, if you must know,” Dorian said, then added hastily, “and not the romantic sort.”

Sera cackled. “That’s even better,” she said. “Go on, I want to see, what kind of dirty rhymes are you writing?”

“Look if you please, but it’s in Tevene,” Dorian said.

Sera blew a raspberry. “Spoilsport. Alright, fine, I can get it into Bull’s room,” she said, sticking out her hand for the page. “But you owe me, yeah? Next time I need your magic shite. No questions.”

“Anything for you, my dear,” he said, and placed it in her hand.

* * *

There was a folded sheet of paper sitting on Bull’s pillow when he finally got back to Skyhold. Normally he’d have wondered how it had got there—may even have hesitated to pick it up without doing a thorough search of the rest of his room—but this one was decorated with crudely drawn dicks, several bees, and one of Sera’s signature self-portraits, and the hole in his ceiling was easily large enough for a skinny elf girl with an enterprising attitude towards climbing buildings. He unfolded it with a smile.

It was actually two pages pinned together; the first was merely a note.

> _Limericks, Bull? Really? If you must insist on writing something so obscene at least have the courtesy to do the thing properly._

Chuckling, Bull flipped to the second sheet. But by the time he had finished reading, his smile had turned to something else entirely.

> _Come, put your hands on my body and pull me closer on your cock._  
>  _Give me all that I could ask—and there is much that I would have._  
>  _Hot at my back I would take you, heavy your touch upon my spine._  
>  _Let me drink you down; grant me the imprint of your shape inside me._

“Fuck,” he breathed, a long slow exhale. Almost without thinking, he reached down to palm himself through his trousers, giving his dick a brief squeeze.

It was just like Dorian to get him all riled up when he hadn’t even seen him yet.

Forcing himself to focus, Bull set the poem down on his table and started unpacking. He had only been at it for five minutes when there was a knock on his door. He opened it to reveal Dorian, swiftly hiding a smirk.

“I heard the Chargers were back,” he said.

They’d barely been in Skyhold half an hour. What’s more, it was cold outside, but Dorian wasn’t rubbing his hands to warm them. He may not have run to get here, but he had definitely moved briskly.

“Sure are,” Bull said. “Did you miss me?”

Dorian stepped into the room, his eyes darting first to the bed and then to the table where his poem now sat. Then he flicked his gaze back to Bull’s face and smiled slowly, saying, “I think, rather, that you missed me.”

“Well,” Bull said, “maybe a little.”

“Far be it for me to deprive you of my presence for any longer, then,” Dorian said, and shut the door behind him. His hands had already started on the fastening of his robes.

Bull grinned. “Aw, Dorian, you say the sweetest things.”

“Hush,” Dorian said, nudging him back towards the bed. “Please, do me the immense favour of removing those atrocities you call your trousers.”

Bull complied, sitting down on the edge of his bed, and without another word Dorian went to his knees before him.

Later—much later, well after dark had fallen—Dorian roused himself from a sleepy doze against Bull’s side, and in the guttering light of the candles began pulling on his clothes.

“The offer to stay still stands,” Bull said from the bed.

“Thank you,” Dorian said, “but you needn’t make it for my sake. I’m quite happy to return to my own room.”

“You sure?” Bull said, pushing himself up on one elbow. “It’s pretty cold out.”

“Yes, I can tell,” Dorian said, casting him a laughing glance. “You’ve a great hole in your ceiling, in case you hadn’t noticed. Don’t worry, for all my protests I am entirely capable of handling a bit of cold.” He made a face; it was entirely unfair how charming it was. “Besides, I half suspect that within the month falling asleep here would be just as dangerous as leaving. I have visions of waking covered in snow.”

Bull had left the hole alone because, in the face of the repairs the rest of Skyhold still needed, it had seemed inconsequential. He was fine; it could wait. But if he knew fixing it meant Dorian would stay the night...

He didn’t know how to say that without making it sound like he was trying to push, so instead he just said, “Oh, fine, if you’re gonna be like that about it…”

Dorian laughed. “Goodnight, Bull.”

Bull was good at keeping his thoughts in order, so he put away that odd little moment of longing until the next afternoon—when he sat down at his table to write his reports and instead found himself looking down at Dorian’s poem, and the feeling unexpectedly reared back up to take him by the throat.

Swallowing it down, he picked up the page to read it over again, smiling faintly at the snappish commentary that prefaced it. He would have to surprise Dorian with his next one. Doubling down on the jokes would be too obvious. He could return something just as blisteringly filthy—give him a taste of his own medicine, and yeah, that was a pretty thought, Dorian flushed and trying to contain himself as he sat reading in the library—but Dorian had heard him say those kinds of things plenty of times before. It might be a shock to see it written down, but it wouldn’t be as surprising as it could be. But if he instead wrote something else entirely…

Once the idea had occurred to him, it wouldn’t leave him alone. He pushed his reports aside and picked up a pen.

* * *

> _Autumn winds whistle through fire-topped trees;_  
>  _Dew in the mornings has started to freeze._  
>  _Glimmering frost crunches under my boots;_  
>  _The forest puts down its deep-sleeping roots._  
>  _Bright berries glow on the branch and the vine;_  
>  _Now is the time for the season of pine._  
>  _Winter approaches with dark-clouded skies—_  
>  _Echoing shades in your crystal-grey eyes._

* * *

The folded paper fell fluttering from Dorian’s robes as he was undressing for bed. He sighed and bent down to pick it up, already bracing himself for Bull’s latest assault on good taste. He was therefore entirely unprepared for what he saw when he unfolded it, and it wasn’t until his third reread that it began to properly sink in.

“What is he playing at?” he said into his empty bedroom. The poem made no reply that he hadn’t already been able to discern.

Faintly unsettled for reasons he didn’t entirely care to name, Dorian set it aside and went to bed. It lingered on his thoughts all the next morning, nagging him at breakfast and following him to the library through all his attempts to focus on the thaumaturgical text he had been working at. Several hours and only half a page of notes later, he finally conceded defeat and set the book aside. It had been dreadfully dull in any case.

He laid a fresh sheet of paper in front of him, and then his mind went blank. What was he to write in response? Their initial exchanges had been—nothing, really. A humorous competition to while away the time, safely and comfortably sexual. This felt different somehow.

Still, if the Bull had changed the parameters of the game with his latest, surely Dorian could respond in kind. Surely he could simply write a poem, about any subject he pleased.

Bull had made him a classically romantic offering; it was practically pastoral. Dorian had never been able to look on the countryside with anything approaching the same fondness, but there were places that haunted his memories. Putting them down in poetry seemed—appropriately intimate as a response.

Writing out his own poem exorcised him of the need to fret at Bull’s, and he was able to go back to concentrating on his book—for given values of concentrating, at least, that had nothing to do with his lack of focus and everything to do with how atrociously poorly it was written. He persisted diligently until the library began to grow dark around him, then decided he was done for the day. He tucked the poem into his breast pocket and left the library.

On his way back to the main level he met Josephine, who was carrying a larger stack of papers than usual.

“Lady Montilyet,” he said, giving her a flourishing half-bow. “How lovely to see you. May I escort you downstairs?”

“Lord Pavus,” she said, returning the closest approximation of a curtsy she could manage with her hands full. “I would be honoured.”

“The honour is mine,” Dorian said, falling in beside her as they started down the stairs. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you,” she said. “How is your research going?”

Dorian sighed. “Alas, not as well as I could have hoped. Who would have guessed it would be so difficult to track down physical evidence of a mad darkspawn magister from the Ancient age?”

“Well,” Josephine said, with the characteristic diplomacy that marked her profession, “should you require any additional resources, please do not hesitate to ask. I cannot make any promises, of course, but your work is valuable to the Inquisition. I will do what I can to ensure it succeeds.”

“Madam,” Dorian said, holding the door for her, “you are as gracious as you are lovely.” It was an idle flirtation, as they both well knew: even if he were interested in women, Inquisitor Adaar had been quite obviously smitten with Josephine for months—and though the woman played her cards close to her chest, Dorian was fairly confident that she returned her affections.

Of course, Josephine took it as it was meant. “Why, messere, I do believe you are flattering me,” she said. “If you’re not careful you’ll turn my head.”

“My dear Josephine, I doubt there’s a soul in Thedas who could turn your head without your permission.”

Josephine smiled at that, the sort of swiftly compressed gesture she’d have hidden with a fan if she’d had one, or—failing that—with her hand if she’d had one free at all. Dorian couldn’t help but smile in return, faintly smug at having caught her out, as they turned towards the exit to the keep.

Something seemed to occur to Josephine then. “Oh! Are you headed to the Herald’s Rest?”

“Am I so predictable?” Dorian said. “I’ll have to change my routine. It would never do to be thought of as dull.”

“Might I prevail upon you for a favour?”

“Of course, dear lady,” Dorian said gallantly. “And I’m not saying that only because you might find it in your heart to give me access to the wine cellar.”

Another quickly concealed smile, then Josephine said, “Would you be so kind as to deliver these papers to the Iron Bull?” Balancing carefully, she fished out a packet from the stack in her arms. “I’d have had them sent by messenger, but they all seem to be off on errands for Leliana. And I do have other things to do.”

“Please,” he said, lifting it from her hands. “I wouldn’t want you to be inconvenienced. I’m happy to deliver these.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” she said. “And I could perhaps be persuaded to have a few bottles set aside.”

“Ambassador,” Dorian said, bowing once more.

He waited until Josephine had hurried off on her other errands, then—glancing around to make sure there was no one to observe him—slipped his poem out of his pocket and tucked the folded sheet into the middle of the little packet he was to deliver to Bull. Then he started once again for the Herald’s Rest, resolving to put it out of his mind.

* * *

The top of the packet Dorian had delivered was a letter, addressed to Bull; the rest looked like Josie’s usual pay reports and expense accounting. As usual, Bull handed them off to Krem without bothering to do more than quickly flip through them, which in retrospect was a mistake when Krem came back an hour later with a raised eyebrow and a sheet of Tevene verse in Dorian’s hand.

“Huh,” Bull said, “should have realized that would be in there.”

“You knew?” Krem said. Falsely casual, he added, “So, I can assume this has been going on for some time?”

Bull shrugged. “We’ve been passing verse back and forth for a bit, yeah.”

Krem’s eyebrow climbed another quarter-inch.

“Oh, come on, Krem-puff,” Bull said. “It’s just for fun. A game.”

“I can read Tevene, you know,” Krem said dryly. “That doesn’t look anything like a game to me.”

“I haven’t even read it yet!” Bull protested. “Cut me some slack.”

“So, just to clarify,” Krem said. His eyebrow still hadn’t gone back down to its accustomed place. “You’re passing poetry back and forth with the Altus, who you’ve been sleeping with on the regular for weeks, and it doesn’t mean anything at all?”

Bull rolled his eye. “Go hassle someone else, would you? I need to go talk to the Inquisitor. The Ben-Hassrath want a meeting.”

Krem sobered a bit at that, then blew out a sigh. “Fine. We’ll talk about this later. Have your meaningless poem,” he added, tossing it onto the table.

Bull waited until he was gone, then picked up Dorian’s latest.

> _Dust on the rain in Minrathous: the dry season ends with abundance._  
>  _Lotus and sticky rice perfume the air; no winter for the north._  
>  _Heady winds, sweet ocean salt and citron, ripe promise of delights._  
>  _Spice on the tongue covers over the sour wine, poison on my lips._

For a long moment Bull just stared at it. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been this.

He had more reason than most to hate Tevinter, and despite Dorian and Krem his instinctive reaction to pretty much every Vint he met was still mistrust. But there was an aching sort of familiarity to this—the push and pull of Dorian’s memories of his homeland, the love and pain wrapped up in each other every time he recalled the place he was born. The rest of the Inquisition could only see Tevinter as an enemy, and in broad strokes that was true of Bull as well, but at the same time he could understand exactly the sort of balancing act Dorian was maintaining. He might have been the only one who could.

That was an uncomfortable thought—doubly so with the spectre of the Ben-Hassrath suddenly looming large. Preparing to make contact with his people wasn’t the best time to be thinking about the ways he had been distanced from the Qun since they’d sent him south. He shook it off and put the poem with the others, then went to see the Inquisitor.

Adaar had been stuck in Skyhold for too long, and jumped at the chance to get out and do something—even something so potentially prickly as arranging an alliance with the Qunari. “But we don’t want to scare them off,” she said. “I’ll bring a couple of our people, and you go round up some of your Chargers. That should be enough to make a good showing.”

“You got it, boss,” Bull said. “We can be moving by midafternoon.”

“Good,” Adaar said. “I don’t want to leave this hanging over our heads for any longer than necessary.”

Bull went back to his room to pack, but instead found himself sitting down at the table to write another poem for Dorian. He didn’t let himself question it too much: it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. And besides, it would only take him a few minutes to throw a bag together. His boys were still assembling; he could spare half an hour.

Once that was done, he tossed the necessities into his pack, tucked his poem into an envelope, and went down into the Herald’s Rest. He stopped at the bar, and Cabot nodded to him.

“Heard you’re heading out for a while,” he said.

Bull nodded. “Leaving this afternoon,” he said. He tapped his envelope on the counter. “Would you mind giving this to Dorian the next time he comes in?”

The dwarf scowled at that, but it seemed born merely out of his usual gruffness rather than any particular ill feeling. “I don’t want anything to do with your love letters. Give it to him yourself.”

“No, it’s not—” Bull began, then stopped, shaking his head. If his conversation with Krem had been any indication, there was no way he was going to be able to explain this. “The point is I want him to get it while I’m away,” he said instead. “Pass it off to Maryden if you don’t want to do it.”

Cabot relented slightly at that, setting down the glass he was polishing. “You know he isn’t in here half as often when you’re away.”

Bull wasn’t going to examine the warmth that blossomed in his chest at that. “Doesn’t matter. He just has to get it eventually.”

“Fine,” Cabot grumbled. “But you’re paying off your whole tab as soon as you get back.”

“Works for me,” Bull said. He set the envelope down on the bar and headed out.

Dorian met him on his way to where the Chargers were gathering, looking uncharacteristically anxious. “The Inquisitor told me you’re going to the Storm Coast,” he said without preamble. “Something about an alliance with the Qunari.”

“Yeah,” Bull said. “Ben-Hassrath got in touch. I’ve got a contact waiting for me.” He shrugged his bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. “You coming?”

But Dorian shook his head. “I asked, but Adaar doesn’t want to bring any more mages than she has to—particularly not the son of a Tevinter magister, estranged though I may be. They already have to deal with her, and whatever’s going on with her hand. She didn’t think it would be _prudent_ ,” he said sourly.

Bull sighed. He’d have liked to have Dorian along with him, but he could understand Adaar’s concerns. One mage was probably plenty, especially when she was Vashoth. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”

“Bull—” Dorian began, reaching out, then stopped himself. He hesitated a moment, then made a frustrated noise in his throat and grabbed the strap of Bull’s pauldron, pulling him down into a decisive kiss.

Bull went willingly, blinking down at him when Dorian let him go. “What was that about?” he said.

“Just—be careful,” Dorian said. “I should hate for anything to go wrong out there.”

“Dorian, hey,” Bull said, catching his hand in a gentling grip. “These are my people, remember? It’s not like I’m going to meet them as an outsider. I’ll be fine.”

Later, on the Storm Coast, watching the blasted remains of the dreadnought sink beneath the waves, he remembered that conversation with a sudden clarity and had to swallow down a bark of hysterical laughter. Dorian’s concern had been far more prescient than either of them could have guessed. Bull barely even registered Gatt’s words as he turned away, a line of tense dismay from his jaw all the way down to his hips—and then the elf was gone, and he was left to contemplate the wreckage of everything he had ever known.

Adaar cast him a worried look, then reached out to squeeze his arm. “We should get going,” she said.

Bull set his shoulders and turned his back on the sea. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

> _I wake at night to jungle air,_  
>  _The scent of flowers everywhere,_  
>  _The birds gone silent in the trees,_  
>  _No sound but only ocean breeze._  
>  _I’ve seen it fall to ash and flame;_  
>  _I’ve seen it done to stake our claim;_  
>  _And still I wonder—who’s to blame?_

* * *

At first, Dorian held back on going to Bull. The Inquisitor had sent only a brief missive from the Storm Coast—with promises of more detail in person—but he had been able to pick up the gist well enough to worry. He didn’t know what sort of comfort to offer. He didn’t know if his comfort would be welcome.

What decided him was the memory of Bull, sitting with him in a Redcliffe tavern after the meeting with his father, keeping pace as he drank himself into insensibility. That had been some weeks before they had begun their… whatever it was, but Bull had been there for him, hadn’t asked anything of him, had simply offered a friendly ear and the comfort of having someone near. As useless as Dorian felt in this matter, he could at least offer that.

And he had, perhaps, something else to offer that no one else could. He was no stranger to losing a home.

He went to the Herald’s Rest that night, acutely conscious of the paper in his pocket. Bull was there, holding court with his Chargers, all of them well into their cups. Dorian slid into a seat next to him without even stopping to get a drink himself.

“Dorian! Hey,” Bull said, giving him a broad grin. It looked natural enough, but on second glance, he didn’t seem nearly as drunk he’d been affecting from across the room. There was a tankard in front of him, yes, but it was barely half-emptied, and Dorian could see no sign that it wasn’t his first of the night.

“Don’t tell me you’re not drinking,” he said, inflecting his voice with a scandalized dismay.

Bull’s grin didn’t waver, but from the flick of his gaze he had obviously picked up on Dorian’s concern. “Nah,” he said, shrugging easily. “It’s probably better if I don’t.”

Dorian ached to comment on that, to take him somewhere quiet and make him open up, but he couldn’t think what to say. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I must insist you not let that tankard go to waste,” he said instead.

Bull chuckled at that, his smile shifting into one somehow more genuine. “You sure? It’s Fereldan beer. Aren’t you still claiming to hate it?”

“I am not _claiming_ anything,” Dorian said haughtily, “and you’re just saying that to stop me stealing your drink. Well, it’s not going to work.”

Bull laughed and pushed it across the table towards him, and Dorian picked it up to take a deep draught. “Wretched,” he said.

“Keep it up, big guy,” Bull said. “No one’s buying it.”

The laughter had knocked something loose in him, but there was still an unnamed edge to his manner that Dorian didn’t like.

They retired to Bull’s room while the evening was still young, accompanied by wolf whistles from the Chargers; Dorian just gave them a mocking wave in acknowledgement. He didn’t feel the need to tell them that his interest tonight lay far more in soothing the tension in Bull’s shoulders than in being well-fucked.

He stepped into Bull’s arms when the door closed behind him, but if anything that only seemed to make it worse. Bull simply looked down at him, and with a sudden lump in his throat Dorian found he had to look away. If he didn’t know better, he’d have called that expression _lost_.

“Bull, please,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Bull’s hands flexed on Dorian’s waist, and for a long moment he didn’t answer. “I’m—” he started, then stopped, then took a deep breath and tried again. “It might be better if you went back to your room tonight.”

Without meaning to, Dorian stepped back, unexpectedly stung. Then sense reasserted itself. Of course he had expected this to come sooner or later: this was precisely why he had repeatedly turned down the opportunity to stay the night. But Bull had said his door was always open to him, and somehow he had let himself think—

He had forgotten how easily Bull could read his face. “Dorian. It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just—I’m Tal-Vashoth now.” He shrugged one massive shoulder, the movement somehow looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know if I can trust myself. It might not be safe for you to stay.”

It took Dorian a moment to find his voice. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that a man who established a watchword _the first time we fucked_ would somehow suddenly become _unsafe_.”

“That was different,” Bull said. He sounded utterly, calmly, infuriatingly certain. “I knew where I stood. I had the Qun as a framework then.”

“Oh, yes, and the Qun is responsible for you respecting your watchword, is it?” Dorian said acidly, then immediately regretted it. Of course it was. The Qun was responsible for all things Bull was and wasn’t—was stamped on every part of him as indelibly as Tevinter was, for good or ill, a part of Dorian’s blood. He wouldn’t be the man he was without it. Dorian took a breath and tried again.

“My apologies,” he said. “That was uncalled for. What I’m trying to say is—you aren’t simply going to abandon everything you are just because the Qun no longer has a hold over you.”

Bull was still looking at him with that unbearable gentleness, like if he could just explain it to Dorian he’d come around. “You don’t understand, Dorian,” he said. “I fought Tal-Vashoth in Seheron. I hunted them. I saw them do horrific things, things they never would have done—”

“Things you still will not do,” Dorian said firmly. “Lest you forget, you are also the man who turned himself in, voluntarily, to be reeducated, because you were afraid you were a danger to your people. You were willing to give up your individuality, your very mind if it came to that, to keep from hurting anyone.” He lifted a hand, letting it rest delicately against Bull’s chest, feeling his pulse beating strong and steady against his fingertips. “That’s part of you. It’s not going to simply disappear.”

Seemingly without his awareness, Bull’s hand had lifted to cover Dorian’s. His eye had that dreadful lost look again, and Dorian couldn’t stop himself from stepping closer, offering up the comfort of touch in the only way he knew how. “Bull, please,” he said. “Let me stay. Let me help.”

Bull hesitated, and Dorian almost thought that would be it, but then his shoulders sagged and he threaded their fingers together. “Would you tie me up?”

Dorian had to blink back surprise. “You?” he said.

“I’m too in my head,” Bull said. “It’d be better if someone else was in control for a bit.”

Dorian softened. “Of course,” he said. “If that’s what you need, I would give it gladly.”

That seemed to settle Bull somehow. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Thanks, big guy.”

With gentle hands, Dorian helped him to strip away his leathers and his trousers; then he attended to his own robes while Bull fetched the rope from the chest at the end of his bed. He accepted it with a word of thanks, testing its weight in one hand. It was a light cotton cream, expertly braided and soft to the touch. It would be beautiful against Bull’s skin.

Dorian had had enough experience with rope—both in Tevinter and at Bull’s own hands—to know what he was doing, even if he had admittedly been more often on the other side of the equation. He directed Bull to sit on the edge of the bed, knotting the cord around his wrists, then crisscrossed lines in loops around his torso until his arms were bound against his chest and his hands rested in a frame at the base of his own throat. Bull seemed to centre himself as Dorian worked; by the time he had tied off the last of the rope he was languid, breathing steadily, his eye slow to open.

Dorian helped him to lie on his back, then stripped off his leggings and settled between Bull’s knees. Bull’s cock was half-hard against his thigh, and his breath hitched when Dorian wrapped his hand around it. He made no other sound.

Somehow Dorian didn’t want to speak, but nevertheless he wet his lips. “What’s your watchword?” he said softly.

“Katoh,” Bull murmured, his voice coming from a great distance.

“Good,” Dorian said, and quieted, not wanting to ruin the precious fragility of this moment. He began to stroke Bull’s cock, running his other hand up the outside of his thigh, and Bull arched into the movement, closing his eye.

Bull kept oils on his nightstand, and Dorian poured one of the bottles liberally over his hand as he slowly and methodically worked his fingers into Bull’s arse. Bull’s hips were moving in tiny tremors, his breathing deep and ragged, and Dorian could feel him reacting to every minute shift of his body.

With gentle touches he directed him to turn his hips, lifting one of his legs to brace it against his shoulder. Bull opened his eye at that, looking up at him with such trust on his face that Dorian could hardly bear it. Instead he turned his face into his knee, pressing a deep kiss to his inner thigh as he pushed slowly into him.

That pulled a sound from Bull’s throat at last, and his hips tilted downwards onto Dorian’s cock. He didn’t strain against his ropes, or fight and push and demand the way Dorian would have in his position, but there was a clear _wanting_ in every line of his body—a deep and intense desire to have Dorian take him over, to let go of every thought but the need to be fucked.

And Dorian was a selfish man, and there was only so much he could bear.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing his thigh again. “I’ve got you, Bull,” he said, and gave him what he wanted.

Afterward, Dorian forced himself to move from where he had slumped against Bull’s thigh, uncurling his protesting legs and shifting to the edge of the bed. Through his well-fucked haze, Bull made a noise of protest.

Dorian stilled him with a gentle touch. “I’m just getting water. I’ll be right back,” he said, and had to bite back the _amatus_ on the tip of his tongue. Maker be praised that Bull was too out of it to have noticed.

Bull had tended to him often enough, and Dorian knew where he kept his things. He went to the washbasin, cleaning himself with a quick and practiced movement, then poured a cup of water and wet the cloth again, coming back to the bed to do the same for Bull. His touch seemed to soothe him, so he tried to keep a hand on him as much as possible as he gently wiped him down and tugged the knots from the ropes.

As he set the rope aside, Bull spoke up at last, his voice as hoarse as if he’d been crying out all evening rather than floating in an intimate silence. “Are you staying?” he said.

Dorian helped him to sit, pressing the cup against his lips and waiting until he had swallowed several mouthfuls before he set it aside. “If you insist,” he said quietly, and sat down on the bed.

* * *

> _Weep not, stars, for the home that you have lost. Children of bright skies,_  
>  _Your day is yet to come. Sound out the horn to the crowds:_  
>  _Call up your entourage, comets to shower the bowl of the heavens._  
>  _Go: search out a new sun, led only by your desires._  
>  _I, too, wander the heavens far from home, seeking my new day._  
>  _Let us find our own sky, greater than that which is past._

* * *

It was a long time before Bull felt up to writing a response, but he found himself rereading Dorian’s poem constantly.

Gradually his foundations began to stabilize. He stuck around people as much as he could. The company helped to balance him out, even though he was still lingeringly afraid of snapping—but at the same time he knew he could trust Adaar’s people to take him out if it came to that. That shouldn’t have been comforting, but somehow it was.

He didn’t mention it to Dorian. It would only have upset him.

He spent most of his days in training with the Chargers. His boys had been unusually boisterous since they’d come back from the Storm Coast. He knew what they were doing, but he was grateful all the same—and to the rest of the Inquisition’s inner circle, who had all reached out in their own ways. He took tea with Vivienne, sparred with Cassandra and Blackwall, and sat around playing cards and swapping stories with Varric. Sera was forever hanging off his shoulders. Even Solas had offered to distract him, and they played out several mental games of chess over the weeks that followed.

And there was Dorian, who had somehow made himself into exactly what Bull needed when he wasn’t looking. He wasn’t going to examine that too closely. He was half-afraid it would disappear if he did.

Adaar did what she could to keep him busy too, even with all the constraints on her time. She had never been part of the Qun, but he still felt like she got it somehow, in a way that no one else did aside from possibly Dorian.

She showed up on the training ground one day as he was finishing up, dressed for the weather and leading a pair of horses sized to Vashoth bodies. “Saddle up,” she said, tossing him a fur-lined vest.

“We got a job?” he said, pulling it on. It actually fit around his shoulders; he had no idea where she’d found it.

But Adaar shook her head. “Nope, we’re just going for a ride. Let’s go, bodyguard.”

Since Bull had on one memorable occasion witnessed her take on a great bear by herself, he didn’t think she really needed his protection, but he knew a convenient excuse when he heard one. He mounted up.

They rode through the Frostbacks, winding their way up the trail through crisp white snow and mountain pines. Winter had set in for good now, but Bull didn’t mind the cold: there was a crystal quality to the air that did wonders to clear his head, the wind seeming to sweep its way into all the dusty corners of his mind. He followed Adaar up the mountainside, at last coming to a stop beside her at the edge of a cliff overlooking Skyhold. The fortress looked small and far away from here, and abruptly Bull was struck by how insignificant his problems were when set next to everything else. It made them feel more manageable somehow.

Adaar let out a pleased sigh, folding her arms over her horse’s mane and resting her chin on her hands as she gazed down on her stronghold. “Did I ever tell you about my mother?” she said idly.

Bull tipped his head towards her, wondering where this was going. “No, you didn’t,” he said.

“She was Saarebas,” Adaar said. “Before she left. She was terrified when her magic came in. She tried so hard as a child to submit to the certainty of the Qun and find her proper place in it, but no matter what she did the doubt never left her heart.” She turned to look at him, her cheek pressing against the back of her hand. “Do you know the fable they tell the mage kids? The Chains of the Saarebas?”

Bull had learned it in Ben-Hassrath training. “I’m surprised she told it to you.”

“Oh, no, she didn’t,” Adaar said. “I found it in a book once and took it to her to ask about it. That was the only time I’ve ever seen my mother cry.” She smiled ruefully. “She said she used to tell it to herself, over and over. The idea that she could be like the Saarebas in the story and find peace in belonging to the Qun was the only thing that could comfort her.”

“What are you trying to say, exactly?” Bull said. He fought the urge to fidget with his reins. Adaar’s mother must have gone Tal-Vashoth eventually, or Adaar wouldn’t be here now telling him this.

“Well, it stopped working eventually,” she said. “As she got older and the fear never eased, she came to realize she had two options: she could either stay, forever searching for that peace in a place where she could never be anything but a dangerous thing, or she could run, and maybe find somewhere else where she wouldn’t have to fear herself. So she decided to run. And you know what?” Adaar said, with a slow smile. “The demon she’d been so afraid of never did find her.”

Bull huffed a laugh. “Alright, boss, I can see your point.”

“I should hope so, I’m not exactly being subtle about it,” Adaar said. She sat up straight, cracking her back. “My father was also a mage, a Vashoth. He taught my mother how to use her magic. And when I was born they knew there was pretty much no way I wouldn’t be a mage, too. So my mother named me Asaaranda, because she wanted me to never be afraid of my own power.”

There were a lot of things Bull could have said to that, but he deliberately set them aside. “Thunderstorm? That why you’re so fond of shooting lightning at shit?” he said instead.

“It may have slightly influenced my choice of specialization, yes,” she said, tossing him a smile. “The point is, you don’t have to be afraid of yourself. You’ve been repeating the Qun this whole time, but it’s always been you that kept the demon at bay.”

Bull didn’t really know how to respond to that. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he began.

“Oh, I know you’re going to process it in your own way,” she interrupted, waving him off. “It’s fine if it doesn’t actually help. I just thought it might be nice to hear.”

“Aww, boss,” Bull said, starting to smile. “That’s actually sweet. That why you dragged me all the way out here in the cold?”

Adaar laughed. “Well, that and I wanted to get out of the damn castle. I’m leaving for the Western Approach in three days and it can’t come soon enough.”

“We could always run off together to fight a dragon,” Bull said reasonably.

“Ugh, don’t tempt me,” she groaned. “But, no, Josie would kill me.” She heaved a sigh. “Come on, we should be getting back.”

They started back down the path towards Skyhold, Adaar reining her horse in to keep it alongside Bull’s. “Oh, and I wanted to ask,” she said. “I was planning on taking Dorian out Venatori hunting with me. Is that alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Bull said. “Does he not want to go?”

Adaar hummed. “No, it’s not that. It’s just—I know he’s been spending a lot of time with you,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to pull him away if it’d leave you off balance.”

Bull grinned at her. “There you go being sweet again,” he said. “Don’t worry about me, boss. I’ll be fine.”

They made their way back to the Skyhold stables, turning the horses over to Dennet and parting ways: she to the keep, he to his room. It was time he wrote back to Dorian.

* * *

They were two days out when Dorian found the poem—or, more accurately, when Sera found it. It fluttered out of his pack to the floor of the tent he was sharing with her, and she snapped it up before he could reach it, only to cry out in dismay when she found she couldn’t read what it said.

“What’s this?” she demanded, waving it in his face. “Is this your posh magister talk?”

“What?!” Dorian said, snatching it from her hand.

It was in Tevene.

Bull had written to him in Tevene.

> _The calling of the tide_  
>  _Still echoes in my blood._  
>  _Satina draws at me:_  
>  _I struggle as she pulls._  
>  _A ship that cannot sail_  
>  _Will founder on the rocks,_  
>  _But clouds begin to break;_  
>  _The heavens show their face—_  
>  _And you, my wand’ring star,_  
>  _Have warmed me with your touch:_  
>  _The storm has passed me by,_  
>  _No wreckage in its wake._  
>  _And though the crashing waves_  
>  _Could sweep me under still,_  
>  _I turn my prow to you—_  
>  _A star to follow home._

There was a long moment of silence in the tent as he stared at it, trying desperately to process what he was reading. It was broken by Sera, pushing her way into his space and trying to grab it back.

“Well?” she demanded. “What does it say?”

Dorian yanked it back out of her reach. “None of your business!” he said. He was astonished to realize his voice was shaking.

“Hah! I knew it!” Sera crowed. “You are writing love letters!”

“It’s not a love letter,” Dorian snapped, or tried to. He didn’t sound convincing even to himself.

“Uh-huh,” Sera said, tapping her tongue skeptically against her teeth. “That why you look so stunned?”

“I do not!”

“You bloody well do,” Sera said, grinning maniacally. “It’s like you got shot in the bum and you’re trying to figure out how the arrow got there.”

With an effort, Dorian drew himself together. “Well, rest assured, you are still the only one storing your arrows in my arse.”

She cackled at that, and Dorian was mercifully allowed to go back to the business of preparing for bed. When they extinguished the light Sera dropped off immediately, as she always did, but Dorian lay awake staring up into the darkness got a long time, lines of Bull’s poetry chasing themselves around his head. Not even the familiar sound of Sera snoring into his shoulder could soothe him into sleep.

In the privacy of his own head, Dorian could admit that all he wanted to do was saddle his horse and ride back to Skyhold as fast as he could.

It was hard to write on the road, but he snatched what time he could around hunting down the remaining Venatori in the area. He composed bits and pieces in his head as they rode, adding them to the page half a line at a time on their quieter evenings.

He did his best to keep it from Sera, but that lasted all of three days. Before long she was heckling him vocally anytime he so much as pulled his pen out.

Cassandra broached the subject with him over dinner one evening. “Dorian,” she said, “what exactly is it that you are writing that has Sera in such a state?”

“He’s writing _poetry_ ,” Sera said before Dorian had the chance to respond, starting herself off on another round of cackling.

“It’s a game Bull and I have been playing for the past three months or so,” Dorian hastened to add, hoping that would be the end of it.

He should have known better. “Really?” Cassandra said, perking up slightly. “I should like to see it, if you’re willing to share.”

Sera pulled a face. “It’s in Tevene,” she said, in a terrible imitation of Dorian’s accent.

Cassandra’s face fell slightly at that, but she soon rallied. “Oh. Well, I think it is very romantic,” she said.

Her words struck home in a way that all of Sera’s commentary about love letters hadn’t, and Dorian was shocked to realize just how much he wished she was right. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said, swallowing down his bitterness, “but it’s just a bit of fun between friends.”

Sera smirked at him. “Sure it is,” she said. “That why you’ve started staying over at his more often than you don’t?”

Curse Sera and her Friends. “Oh, hush,” he said, slightly more snappishly than he had intended. “As if you’re any better with your Arcanist.”

“Yeah, but I don’t pretend that doesn’t matter,” Sera returned hotly.

That stung, not least because it was true. “If everyone is quite finished interrogating my personal life now!” Dorian said.

His words hung tersely in the air for a moment; then Sera blew a raspberry and flopped back across the log she was using for a seat.

“I still think it’s romantic,” Cassandra said quietly, and went back to her meal.

Dorian tried to return to his poetry, only to have his eye drawn across the fire to Adaar. She hadn’t said anything the entire length of this discussion; now he was astonished to find her smiling softly in his direction.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said. “Enjoy your game.”

They were in the Western Approach another couple of weeks before they were done for the time being, having rooted out several pockets of Venatori and dug up a few new research projects for the Inquisition’s contacts. It was all Dorian could do to contain himself as they started back towards Skyhold. He vented his frustrations in the only way he could: with endless complaints about the weather.

Bull was lingering by the gate when they finally made it home. Dorian practically flung himself from the saddle, almost willing to sacrifice his dignity and run to him. He had his poem already in hand before he recalled—they still hadn’t spoken to each other about what they were writing, or even handed any of their poems over directly. Could he risk changing the rules of their game?

What if it didn’t mean the same to Bull as it had come to mean to him?

By the time Bull made his way over to him he had tucked his poem back away. “Come to witness our triumphant return, I see,” he said lightly, busying himself with his tack.

Bull just smiled crookedly. “It’s good to see you, big guy.”

“Goodness. Did you miss me that much?” Dorian said, falling back on their familiar banter.

“Yeah,” Bull said simply. “Skyhold isn’t the same without you.”

Dorian’s breath froze in his lungs. “I’m surprised you noticed, with your boys around to hold your attention so,” he said. He hoped it didn’t sound as choked as it felt.

Bull grinned at that. “The boys are too sensible to try to get me naked.”

Dorian let out a bark of laughter. “Ah, now there’s a service I can provide,” he said. “A refreshing lack of good sense.”

“You said it, not me,” Bull said, settling his hands on Dorian’s hips. “Join me in the tavern?”

Against his better judgement, Dorian found himself leaning into the touch. “Tempting,” he said, “but I think I’d rather desperately like a bath, actually.”

“Works for me,” Bull said. “I’ll help you clean up.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I see. Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Well,” Bull said. “I can help with the soap, at least.”

Dorian smiled. “In that case, I should be delighted to have your assistance.”

* * *

> _Stars all are born in a fire and a conflagration: so with us._  
>  _Your hands ache upon me. Set me ablaze in the night,_  
>  _Lover, and keep me from my rest: I would rather lie waking_  
>  _Than lose a moment of touch. I see you in all my dreams._  
>  _And you, lover, do you dream of me, too? Put your lips to mine—_  
>  _I would have all of you; let us both go up in flames._

* * *

It was a relief to have Dorian back. Bull didn’t want to admit it, especially not to Adaar, but he hadn’t slept as well as he had expected with him gone. His bed, previously perfectly sized to him, now seemed too large. He had kept waking in the night and reaching out to pull Dorian closer, and it was always a shock to realize he wasn’t there. He’d even missed the soft snuffling wheeze he made in his sleep.

The Inquisitor’s party had been back for three days when someone—probably Adaar—let slip about the assassins. Dorian came storming up to his room that evening, demanding with no preamble why Bull hadn’t seen fit to mention it.

Bull was taken aback by the strength of his reaction. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said.

Dorian got, if possible, even angrier at that, drawing himself up to his full height with a fire flashing in his eyes. It probably shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was.

“Am I given to understand that you thought _hiding it_ would somehow make it _less_ worrying?!”

Bull couldn’t understand where this anger was coming from. “Dorian, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Oh, forgive me if I can’t see how _assassins_ can be ‘not a big deal,’” Dorian snapped.

“No, seriously,” Bull said. “They were just a warning. They sent a couple of guys after me with knives and a poison they knew I had the antidote for. I didn’t even end up needing Adaar’s help.” He shrugged. “It was just—a formality. To really drive home that I’m Tal-Vashoth.”

All the anger seemed to go out of Dorian at that, and he stared up at Bull, stricken. “Oh,” he said at last.

“Hey,” Bull said. “I’m fine, big guy. Don’t worry about me.” He lifted his hand to Dorian’s cheek, brushing his thumb across his cheekbone. “I’m where I want to be.”

“Bull…,” Dorian said, leaning almost helplessly into the touch. He raised his own hand, covering Bull’s fingers with his own.

Something painful swelled in Bull’s chest then, and he swallowed around it. “So,” he said, trying to get this conversation back onto familiar ground, “were you planning on staying tonight? Or did you just come up to lecture me about assassins?”

Dorian’s eyes blinked open, and for a moment he looked almost dazed, but then he let out an aggrieved sigh. “I suppose I could be persuaded to stay,” he said, and reached up to pull Bull down into a messy kiss.

The evening got back on track after that, and Bull was drifting in the pleasant warmth that followed really good sex when he felt Dorian shifting against him like he was planning to stand. He cracked his eye open. “Where are you going, big guy?”

Dorian had sat up and started pulling on his leggings. “Back to my room, of course,” he said.

His words hit Bull like a shock of cold water. He sat up. “You’re not staying?”

Dorian stared up at him, his lips parted softly in surprise. “I simply thought—you were very much in your head for some time, but you seem to be doing much better now,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you’d like your bed back.”

Bull couldn’t think what to say to that. “But—I got the ceiling fixed,” he said, absurdly.

“I do appreciate that,” Dorian said. “Really. But you needn’t make excuses for my sake. It’s quite alright.”

That hurt, a lot, for reasons Bull wasn’t even going to begin to contemplate, but he kept it from creeping into his voice. “Hey, if you’d rather go, that’s fine. Door’s always open to you, from either side,” he said.

Something pinched in Dorian’s face at that. “I’m not ending our association, don’t mistake me,” he said quickly. “I’ll certainly be back. That is, if you’d like me to be,” he added, suddenly uncertain.

“Yeah,” Bull said. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Bull…,” Dorian said, hesitant. “Are you—do you _want_ me to stay?”

 _Yes_ , he wanted to say— _yes, please stay, stay forever_ , but he couldn’t make his lungs work. How could he give voice to all the things he wanted to say? He wanted to tell Dorian everything: how poorly he’d been sleeping without him, how much he liked just having him around, how he wanted to spend the rest of his life waking up to the softness of his face and his smudged kohl and his sleep-mussed hair. But it wouldn’t have been fair to put that on him. That had never been the terms of their arrangement.

“It’s up to you, big guy,” he said softly. “Whatever you want to do, I’m good.”

Dorian’s face fell at that, and for a moment it looked like he was going to argue, but then it passed. “Very well,” he said, shrugging on his robes. He turned back to Bull, pulling him down into a long, soft kiss, then reluctantly drew back and got to his feet. “Goodnight, Bull,” he said.

And he left.

Bull settled back down, but sleep wouldn’t come. For a long time he simply laid there, staring up at the patch in his ceiling in what was left of the candlelight.

When the grey light of false dawn at last began to touch the horizon, he gave up, threw off his blankets, and crossed to the table to write.

* * *

Dorian found the poem in an envelope on his chair in the library.

For an absurd moment he was tempted to just turn around and walk back out. He couldn’t open it. For all he knew, this would be it for their game—if it was even still a game anymore. There seemed to be a lot more riding on this single poem than there ever had been when they started this. If he opened it now and found that Bull had gone back to the way things were, he didn’t know what he would do.

On the other hand, he didn’t know what he would do if he hadn’t, either. Possibly scream.

He found himself irresistibly drawn forwards, and it was with a suppressed tremor in his hands that he picked it up.

He opened the envelope.

> _The fire seems a paltry, trembling light_  
>  _Held next to you: for you are making light._
> 
> _A scarred horizon swallows all we know;_  
>  _The broken sky shines down its dying light._
> 
> _I offered you a refuge from the cold;_  
>  _You came to me, your face a breaking light._
> 
> _Like something from a distant longing dream,_  
>  _Your painted portrait: shades of glowing light._
> 
> _Desire has wrapped itself about my throat,_  
>  _And over you, my hands are bleeding light._
> 
> _How can you seem so far yet be so close?_  
>  _How can I dare to touch your aching light?_
> 
> _I reach for you, and every time I choke._  
>  _There’s only this—a scattered, fading light._

Dorian read it once, and then—convinced it couldn’t have said what he thought it said—went back to the beginning and read it again. The words remained the same. The tremor hadn’t stopped.

How was he meant to respond to this? How was he meant to absorb this at all?

“No,” he said suddenly. “No. I cannot fucking deal with this.”

He was not going to sit down and do research. He couldn’t. He was going to find Bull and demand answers _right now_ , before he gave himself a stroke.

He might have run from the library. He wasn’t sure he cared anymore.

Bull was training with his Chargers, but he must have had half an eye on the door to the keep, because he stopped immediately as soon as Dorian came flying down the steps. Dorian could see him waving away concerns from his men, and then he had set his weapon down and stepped off the training ground, coming out to meet him halfway.

Dorian stopped in front of him, just staring up at him, struggling to get his voice working. “We should talk,” he said, his voice strained. “Somewhere private.”

“Yeah,” Bull said simply, and waited for Dorian to take the lead.

He had always waited for Dorian to take the lead.

Dorian found an empty corner of the grounds, tucked away at the side of the gardens. Bull’s expression was carefully blank when he turned back to him, but Dorian knew him well enough to be able to tell when he was hiding tension.

He was still holding the poem. He thrust it out to Bull. “We need to talk about this,” he said.

“I overstepped,” Bull said immediately. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry. I knew you didn’t want to stay, I just couldn’t get it out of my head. It wasn’t fair of me to put it on you.”

Dorian had no idea how to respond to that. “I don’t—that’s not— _Bull_ ,” he said desperately, “no one has ever written anything like this for me before.”

“I’m sorry,” Bull said again. “I understand—if you’d have preferred it had been someone else.”

“What—you just—no!” Dorian sputtered. “Would you just listen?!”

Instantly Bull went silent, waiting for him to speak.

Dorian took a deep breath, trying to draw in his wildly scattered thoughts. “Bull,” he said, stepping forward and flattening the palms of his hands against his chest, the poem still held between two fingers. “I’m not very good at this. I suspect—neither of us is.”

“I didn’t expect things to go this far,” Bull said. He laughed briefly; there was a half-hysterical edge to it. “I didn’t expect any of this at all. If you’d prefer I backed off…”

“No,” Dorian said, too quickly. “No. I wouldn’t prefer that at all,” he added quietly. “Bull, I need to know if you meant it. If you mean it.”

For a long, long moment Bull said nothing. Dorian flexed his fingers, then stilled them, trying to force patience. He suspected his heartbeat might have been visible in his throat.

“Bull, please—”

“Yes,” Bull interrupted. “Yes. I meant it.”

Suddenly Dorian found himself blinking back tears.

“Oh. Well… good,” he said, his voice entirely too shaky. He laughed wetly. “I’d have felt dreadfully foolish if I was the only one of the pair of us who had somehow fallen in love.” He tried to keep his tone flippant, but he could feel his voice catching on the last word.

Bull’s eye was as wide as Dorian had ever seen it. “Dorian, you—”

“Venhedis,” Dorian interrupted. “Would you please stop me talking before I say anything truly insipid?”

Bull began to smile at that, lifting one massive hand to cradle Dorian’s jaw. “I thought it was sweet.”

“Oh, don’t you start—”

“Kadan,” Bull said, cutting him off, and leaned in to kiss him.

Dorian practically melted against him, crushing Bull’s poem between them as he wrapped his arms around his chest and clung fiercely. He had never been kissed like this—like it was something precious and delicate and irrevocably real, like it was never going to end, like it _mattered_.

“That had better mean what I think it does,” he said, when Bull at last pulled away.

“It does,” Bull said, and kissed him again.

Dorian rather thought he might never let go.

* * *

> _Recklessly I courted flames, but you would not allow me to burn out._  
>  _Terrified, I reached for you; you were reaching out as well._  
>  _Your heart, you call me, but how can that be so when mine is yours?_  
>  _But hold me close to you. Here there is only ourselves._  
>  _And, at the bitter end, the cold stars may not know your name—but, love,_  
>  _I did. I do. I will. Oh, my beloved, I have._

**Author's Note:**

> The Tevinter forms Dorian uses in this fic are adaptations of the popular forms of the Byzantine Empire: dactylic hexameter, elegiac couplets, and iambic trimeter. The Qunari forms that Bull uses are adapted from three Arabic forms—the rajaz, the nasīb, and the ghazal—and he also writes in Tevinter's iambic trimeter.
> 
> The limericks are Fereldan, and I apologize for nothing.


End file.
